You Can Run but You Can't Hide (25 page)

boy. Granted, he was twenty-one years old, but he was my baby boy.

I felt like my karma was all good. I was getting my office set up in

Hawaii, living the dream.

First chance I got, I flew back to Colorado to meet my boy. I went

down to the county jail. By this time, I was already well known in

Denver as the Dog. I had a love-hate relationship with the cops there.

Since I had just won the Hero of the Year award, the lieutenant

showed me a great deal of respect. I told him my story about Christo-

pher. He was understanding and sympathetic. “Let’s go see the boy.”

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He took me to the third tier of the jail.

“Daddy!!” I saw a scrawny little white boy running toward me.

He cut in and out of the black guys, like he was running for a touch-

down. Christopher jumped into my arms like he was a little kid. He

was a mirror image of me at that age.

“Daddy! I knew you were alive.” He was a child stuck in a man’s

body. I had to get him out of this place. I posted his bond that same

day. I took him to my mom and dad’s.

Flash looked at him and said, “That’s the boy you will always

have around because he will be lost without you.” It’s true that

Christopher is needier than my other adult children. He’s extremely

immature for his age, but I love him as much as any of the others.

His adoptive mother told me he was diagnosed with ADD/ADHD.

That’s bullshit. The only thing Christopher suffers from is SAC—

Stubborn Ass Chapman.

After his mother killed herself, Christopher was put into foster

care. The woman who adopted him hated me. In a strange twist of

fate, my grandpa Chapman lived across the street from the family

that adopted my son. When Christopher was four and five years

old, Grandpa bounced him on his knee, unaware he really was

his great-grandson. By the grace of God, he was never without his

real family.

Christopher was charged with committing a hate crime and bur-

glary. He was facing forty-five years in the joint. The judge presid-

ing over his case was a guy I knew when I first starting writing bail

in Denver. At the time, he was just a lawyer named Frank Martinez.

I wrote a lot of bail for Mexican clients in the early days. I told

them they couldn’t run, and they hardly ever did. We shook hands

like blood brothers. I used to suggest Martinez’s firm to my clients

because he was so honest.

I met Martinez in a funny way. I passed him one day in the

hallway of the courthouse and we bumped into each other on

purpose.

We snarled at each other for no other reason than our machismo.

“What’s your problem, essa?”

“What did you just call me?” Thank God, Dick Jordan, another

bondsman, stepped between us. He told us we were just alike and

would actually like each other.

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Two days later, Martinez called me. “I’ve never met anyone like

you, Dog. You defend my people. You’re not Mexican. Why would

you aggressively defend my people?”

My explanation was simple: “They’re my people too. I’m a

bondsman. I don’t care where my clients come from. They’re all my

brothers.”

Martinez must have appreciated my candor. “Well, Dog, I’ll

send you all of my clients if you send me yours.” By law, I wasn’t

allowed to recommend a particular lawyer, but I could affirm a

client’s choice. From that day on, I sent all of my Mexican clients to

Martinez.

A year later, I heard someone call my name as I was walking in

a courthouse corridor.

“Dog. I want to show you something.”

I turned around and saw Martinez pointing to a courtroom. I

walked through the double doors and saw a nameplate reading

Judge Frank Martinez on the desk in the center of the room. I

was so happy for my compadre. He became one of the smartest,

fairest, sternest judges to preside in the Denver court system. When-

ever I walked into his courtroom, Martinez got a big grin on his face.

“Well, if it isn’t the Mighty Dog.” He had a deep, hearty laugh.

“Dog, tell everyone about working the chain gang in Texas. I

want my courtroom to hear how you turned your life around.”

I’d tell the story of being in Huntsville and the grueling days of

working the fields, hoping my journey would help convicts go

straight.

As luck would have it, Martinez was the presiding judge for

Christopher’s case. I called him up to let him know my son was on

his docket. I told him Christopher wasn’t a gay basher. He’s just a

redneck who didn’t know any better. My son was weak-minded

and didn’t have the capability to know what he was doing was

wrong. Martinez heard me out. He told me to come to court with

Christopher and his lawyer. When I got there, he asked me to repeat

what I’d said on the phone. The judge found mercy in his heart to

drop the hate-crime charge and reduced his charge to robbery.

Christopher took a nickel, which equals five years in prison, for his

crime. He got very lucky.

C h a p t e r Tw e n t y - e i g h t

MY DARKEST DAY

In a sense,
I am the biggest mama’s boy ever. My mom meant

the world to me. She taught me to appreciate the ladies, treat them

with respect, to embrace their loveliness, and adore their compan-

ionship. Women weren’t allowed to run with the guys when I was in

the Disciples. They could hang out with us, but never, ever could

they go on a robbery or a score. But I always have to have my lady

with me. I worry about her when we’re apart. It’s not a jealousy

thing so much as it is deeply caring for her well being. There’s noth-

ing like holding a woman close and always having her near.

It was very hard for me to accept that I caused my momma pain

when I was growing up. No matter what I did, what mistakes or

poor choices I made, Mom was always there for me. She loved me

unconditionally, in a way no other woman can.

In late 1993, my sister Joleen called from Denver to tell me Mom

was dying of emphysema and severe angina. I didn’t believe it until

Beth called me and said my mom really was dying. She bought me a

plane ticket to come right home.

Eleven hours after receiving Beth’s call, I was at my mother’s

bedside at St. Anthony North Hospital, in Northglenn. I held her

hand, trying not to show my own fear at the thought of losing her.

I gently brushed back her hair with my fingertips, speaking in a

tone just louder than a whisper. “When you get better, I’m going to

move you out to Hawaii so we can be closer.”

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I could see Mom’s eyes light up at the thought of spending the rest

of her life in paradise. She squeezed my hand so tight. Now she had a

reason to get better, a motivation to live. I prayed over Momma and

asked the Lord to help heal her from her disease.

“Lord Jesus, bless us with your great gift of healing. We need

you now more than ever, Lord. I need my momma, her strength,

her spirit. Please, Lord. I beg you to heal her from her illness and al-

low her to stay here with her family just a little while longer.”

Tears streamed down my face as I begged the Lord for my momma’s

life.

Just then, my mother’s doctor pulled me aside to talk about op-

tions. I stood listening to him with my dad and Joleen. In an effort

to relieve her discomfort and prolong her life, the doctors wanted to

perform a tracheotomy. But Mom wasn’t the kind of woman who

could stand living with tubes or holes in her neck.

When he told me that, I turned to my dad and asked, “Does he

know who I am?” Reluctantly, Dad told me he did. I got right in

the doctor’s face and told him, “If my mom dies, you die. Got it?”

The doctor looked at my dad to see if he was going to jump in. He

didn’t. Dad, Joleen, and the doctor stood silent, knowing damn

well I meant it.

Her eyes lit up and she straightened herself in the bed. She

squeezed my hand and nodded. With Hawaii in her future, Joleen

said, her spirit and health improved with every passing day.

The day my mother arrived in Honolulu was a truly blessed day.

She said, “Son, I don’t know why I didn’t raise you here. I am so

sorry. You are right. This is beautiful!” I don’t think I ever saw my

mom look happier than she did in that moment after stepping off

the plane.

Mom came out first, while Dad worked in my bail bonds office

in Denver. As soon as he could, Dad came out and joined her. My

plan was for them to take it as easy as possible, just relax and fish.

For once in their lives, I didn’t want them to worry about a thing. I

was able to get her and Dad an apartment just above ours on Oahu

at the Waipuna. That way, Mom had the chance to play with the

grandbabies whenever she wanted, and I could spend time building

up the business. Although she loved the kids, what Mom really

wanted to do was help me out. She did all the bookkeeping, while

Dad learned the bond business. With their help, for the first time in

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my career, all of my bills were paid, and there was money left over

in the bank. That cushion gave me room to grow. I began looking

for other office locations right away.

I checked out the other islands, but no location seemed as logi-

cal as or more appealing than Kona, on the Big Island. The Big Is-

land is so called because it is more than twice the size of all of the

other Hawaiian islands combined. The terrain ranges from high

mountains to sandy beaches, from dense tropical rain forests to vast

pastures. The moment I landed in Kona, I thought I would spend

the rest of my days living in that particular tropical paradise. I en-

visioned my parents moving in with my family and me, so we’d all

live together in one huge compound.

Despite Mom’s illness being in remission, I was well aware of

her fragility. She had been on oxygen for so many years that she had

developed a wrinkle where the tube went around her face. She was

very meticulous about her appearance, and she hated that damn

wrinkle. A month after arriving in Hawaii, Mom was off the oxy-

gen. It was a miracle.

I had no idea how much time we had left together, but I knew

damn well I wanted to make every minute count. Even though I ap-

preciated her help around the office, I wanted her to live a comfort-

able and easy life. Once I brought my parents to see Kona, they fell

in love with it about as fast as I did.

That was it. I immediately began searching for a home where we

could all live. At the very least, I wanted Mom and Dad to have

their own place. One day, I found the most beautiful house high on

a hill above Kailua. The views were breathtaking. I could see the

mountains and ocean from every room in the house. For twenty-five

hundred dollars a month, the house could be mine.

Crash. That was the sound of my dream falling to the bottom of

the sea. I couldn’t afford that kind of money for rent. It was out of

the question. The owner asked me why I looked so sad.

I explained who I was and why I was looking for a home in

Kona. “I brought my mother to Hawaii to live the rest of her life in

paradise.” The house was exactly what I imagined. Unfortunately, I

forgot that paradise comes with a price.

The owner and I sat and talked for a while longer. She told me

Elvis Presley had done the same thing for his mom. She looked at

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me and said, “You know, my mortgage is only $850. If you were

able to cover that, I would be satisfied.”

I was in shock.

She smiled and asked, “So . . . deal?”

How could I refuse? Two weeks later, my parents moved in. I felt

so proud.

Mom and Dad ran the Kona office for me. Things were going

pretty good. Mom flew to Honolulu whenever I couldn’t make it to

Kona.

About a year after moving to Kona, Mom called and said she

wanted to come for a visit. I picked her up in my MG Midget, and

we spent the next three days driving all over Oahu. We talked end-

lessly about our family, my Indian roots, and my dreams, hopes,

goals, and passions. I told her about my need to follow the sun, my

heart, and my visions. Mom explained that was the way of her peo-

ple. She was very exact when she spoke to me on that trip. She

wanted to make sure I understood who I was, where I came from,

and my path toward the future.

Mom and I loved shopping together. I never got tired or bored

while she browsed. She was always filled with such wonder, as if she

was trying to soak in as much information as she could. For some

inexplicable reason, on that particular visit, I felt like she was run-

ning some type of race. At the time, I had no idea why. She even put

a red, decorative clown mask on layaway, as if to say she would be

back to pay for it in full sometime soon. Just before leaving to go